September 23, 2013 by Lindsay Tigar - 17 Comments

The End of Mr. Possibility

Two years to the day after we broke up, we met on the highline.

The highline, much like our relationship or our friendship or our whatever we were, was built on leftover, damaged tracks. Nothing about the foundation was sturdy enough to hold it, and though we decorated it with potted flowers and translucent hopes, we started as a forgotten, disabled path to, well, nowhere. Though beautiful things may have been produced, the wreckage was still brightly on display, easy to sense, harder to forget.

He was gone from my life for the past year, mostly anyway. Some place, past the pond, past my reach. And that’s why I made such great strides: apart from a few emails and texts and calls, he was far enough away that I couldn’t be tempted and out of my thoughts long enough that I could move on and let go.

I still thought of him though. More often than I’d care to admit. More than I told my friends.

When good things happened and when terrible things did. When I ordered a mojito at happy hour (his favorite) or my group of friends split shumai at a sushi restaurant. When we would venture across the river to Williamsburg, and walking through Rockefeller Center, a place that will mean more to me than it did to him. I thought of him while crossing Bryant Park, and sometimes when I wrapped my arms tightly around myself in the dark, feeling the void of a man’s body, and willing myself to not wish it was his.

I had made the decision to move on, and though I seesawed in and out of his bed and in mine, for too many months to count afterward, I knew the choice to choose impossibility over desperate hope was smart. It was right, but it was hard. Probably, the hardest and most emotionally tangling thing I’ve ever had to do. The worst part was not actually breaking up with him, but the endless, depressing and most often, disappointing dating that followed. He didn’t fulfill my needs, but neither does this guy or that one or any of them. Was it me or was it them? Or was it the both of us?

Or was it just New York?

Standing on the edge, overlooking the bustling city below, with its maze of lights and billboards and taxis, I waited to see his shape. I knew it would be familiar and unrecognizable all the same. A few martinis in to ease my anxiety, I’m not sure if I cared how I looked but I hoped he would notice. Or at least see how much I’ve grown in the past year, how deeply I’ve mended myself and how difficult it is to stand here, in heels, looking into the city hoping for my future, while feeling my past creep up on me. When I felt his palm grace the small of my back, I quickly turned around, braced for the emotional impact, prepared for the fall.

But he was just himself. Mr. Possibility. Two years, 20-something countries, thousands of dollars I’ll never see, far too many one-night-stands, I’m sure, later — he was just the same. A little more gray hair, the same dimpled-smile, the same strange eyes.

My friends advised against seeing him, for fear it’d only bring up bad habits and make me feel worse instead of better. There was no need, they said, to open up wounds that had scabbed over, but not healed, and putting myself in a situation where the odds are against me was a chance not worth taking. The idioms are all true and terribly overused, but couldn’t be more fitting than this planned encounter, where I had to face up to these visions in my head, instead of letting them dance around in never, never land – never being a reality.

We shared our niceties, politely and kindly. We talked about the same things we always talked about, we mulled over the same frustrations and the same conversations, sending me back into a time where my mind was far more clouded than it is now. Just like the day I broke up with him, he was still lost in himself, unable to put anyone else before him, and incapable of moving forward with anything or anyone or any plan. All of the things about our relationship that bothered me two years ago, bothered me in this moment, watching the sun set in the West, and feeling my heart swell up into my throat, asking me: were you really ever in love with this man?

Or was it just what you thought he could be? What you thought you could turn him into? Was it the idea that by being the most perfect girl with the most perfect everything, you could turn the imperfect man into the guy you want to be with? Did you think your reward would be his hand, your payoff, his love? Had you really waited – consciously or not – for him to turn into something that simply, my dear, he’s not?

He noticed my changes, and I tried to comment on his, though to me, he was still my impossible first New York love. That man that makes the island a little colder, a little less like the scenes you dream of, and more like the harshness, the toughest, the city actually has. I had hoped a million tiny, irreplaceable dreams about Mr. Possibility and I, and even more about our tarnished fate.

But I’m not 22 and fresh off the boat. I don’t feel that way, anymore.

I’m not persuaded by clever words and empty promises. I’m not willing to settle for someone who can only love with half of their heart. I can’t swallow myself deep enough for someone who can’t see the good when it’s there or the damage when it’s done. And though I sort of already knew all of this, it took another mistake – or was it a milestone? – to make it feel real. To make it have that crisp and finally, solidified ending that doesn’t leave you hurting, but instead, makes you thankful.

Thankful that you had the chance to learn and in some twisted, unhealthy, unproductive way, love someone who can’t love you back. If it’s something I must be taught, I’d rather know it now than to linger on a possibility that always, honestly, was impossible. Thankful that when faced with the choice of getting back into an endless, tainted circle of exhausting conversations and maddening druken nights with someone I used to be, well mad, about or be alone, the latter seems so much better.

Thankful that though I wasted time and fragments of my heart that I won’t – and don’t want – back, and even though I discounted my worth to try to match his, and even though it took way longer than I imagined it would, I can calmly, confidently close the chapter of possibility. Thankful that by finally letting the first possibility become a memory and not a maze, I open myself up to the kind of possibilities I really want. The kind of love I know I deserve. The more than just possible man that I know is somewhere in this city, wondering about the me, the possibility for him.

As for Mr. Possibility and me?

We’re like that highline, where two years later, we finally cut the heartstrings, and went in our own separate ways, walking on rusted tracks, stumbling but not faltering, remembering with love, but never – not again – looking back.

September 16, 2013 by Lindsay Tigar - 8 Comments

My First Year With Lucy

A year ago today, I walked into Citipups in the West Village with my friend M after an afternoon of walking around my favorite spots in the city. It was my birthday and since I didn’t want to spend the time alone, M sweetly met up with me and we entertained ourselves through stores and shops, bars and cars that don’t slow down when you cross the street.

I wanted to go into that petstore, the one that’s near my friend K’s apartment that always has puppies in the window, cuddling up against the glass, looking entirely irresistible. Since its close to my job, on stressful days when I needed a little affection, I’d come in and just smile at the pups, imagining what it’s be like to own a little nugget.

But I couldn’t, seriously I couldn’t.

My schedule is too crazy, my time too precious. I’m dating and going out with friends, spending too much time away from my apartment and probably not saving enough. Dogs are so expensive and they need training and toys and wee wee pads and more love than I can give. It not the right span in my life to commit to a fury something, no matter how badly I wanted one.

Until I saw that clearance puppy in the corner.

She was sleeping with her white face looking out into the store, her front paws crossed underneath her body. There was a sale sticker next to her name: “white/brown female Maltese/Pomeranian.” I asked the clerk why such a cute girl would be discounted and he told me because she was six months, she was too old to make much money off of and would soon go into heat. I looked at her delicate face and long tongue, and though I knew I shouldn’t, I asked to see her.

As soon as she hit the floor of the play pin she went running — in circles, across my lap, M’s lap, around and around. I would later learn she didn’t even know hep go walk on a leash, a fun fact that pet stores keep hidden, since it would reveal their neglect. She didn’t stop moving until she hopped up on my lap, planted a smelly, puppy breath kiss on my cheek, curled up on my bent legs and fell asleep.

I was done for.

I asked M about a hundred times if I could really go through with it, adopt this dog that had no name and already felt so perfectly meant for me. She licked my hand and rolled over to expose her pink belly, looking up at me like she just knew, just like I just somehow knew, too. M reassured me while adding a side of reality — my life would change, my choices would now involve a white fluff ball who needed attention.

I’m still not sure what came over me or how I reached the decision I did, but I handed over my credit card and a chunk of my savings to purchase my clearance puppy. Sure, she might be from a puppy mill and I would have preferred to adopt a rescue, but moments happen. And when it feels like the right match, your best bet is to take a leap and hope for the very best.

Now, Lucy Liberty (after the city she lives in and I love), is the first thing I see and the last thing I cuddle every day. She is there to greet me with happiness and energy, after long days at work and awful dates that seem to never end. She has taught me the important and difficult lesson of patience and how to put my needs second to care for something who needs me. My room — amazingly — has stayed mostly clean for an entire year, a huge accomplishment if you ask my past roommates and boyfriends.

I’ve spent so much more time exploring the city and walking outside because I had a tiny companion to come along on the journey. She’s the perfect excuse to why I can’t go out when I don’t feel up to, or a way to end a drink meet-up because I’m just not feeling it. She has costs me money and shoes, laptop chargers and furniture, peed on things I didn’t know you could pee on, and shown me an unconditional kind of love and senseless laughter that I didn’t know a pup could evoke.

It hasn’t always been easy, and at times I’ve doubted my decision and if it was the best move for me, right now. Maybe it’s not, maybe she holds me back from another round or puts a damper on day-long weekend plans, but she’s worth it.

All I wanted for my 24th birthday was a pet of my own, even if I didn’t know it or admit it. Lucy came into my life just when I needed her, just when she needed me.

And today, on my quarter life birthday, I not only celebrate 25 years of this crazy life, but one full year with my girl. My only wish this go around is to find the kind of happiness that she brings to me in other places of my life. And to enjoy anything as much as Lucy enjoys off leash hours in Central Park. It’s true, sometimes the things you want the most is the freedom to go as you please, but always come back to a place and a person who loves you.

When I think of the years to come and all of the change that will come with age – job and location changes, boyfriends and eventually a husband, pregnancies and babies, homes and gray hairs, new adventures and friendships that transform, too — I’m excited that I not only get to have those amazing experiences, but that I have a little pup that’s on board for the journey, too.

Happy one year since we met, little bit! I promise I’ll take you to the park after my birthday dinner tonight!

September 9, 2013 by Lindsay Tigar - 7 Comments

The 500th Post

It all started in a bathtub.

Almost three years ago when I was fresh off the plane from NC, working at a business magazine, ten pounds heavier and far more naive, I wrote one little blog with the intention of loving myself. I haven’t quite figured it out yet, and at times I slide backwards instead of forward, but these pages and all of the people who have made this blog the open, confessional space it is, have changed my life in more ways than I could have ever predicted.

It’s opened the door to book agents and book proposals, talk shows, panels, conferences and interviews, the chance to reconnect with folks I haven’t spoken to in years and meeting people I wouldn’t have met otherwise. It’s been a safe and loving venue where I can write freely and honestly, letting myself go and forgiving myself with each and every word.

When I say I love this blog, it’s without any hesitation at all.

And I love what it does, or at least what I hope it does. It helps women (and sometimes men) feel a little bit better about being a 20-something. Or about being single. Or about their ex-boyfriend they can’t (for the life of them) get over. Or about failed dates and failed relationships, lost jobs and lost hope. Or about not having their shit together (because none of us do!).

Thank you — each of you — who come back every single time I write something. Thank you for your comments, your emails, your tweets and your likes. You remind me that it’s all okay, that it’s all working out in a magical way, that I’m not alone, that I’m not doing it the wrong way. That I’m just figuring it out, like everyone else. Thank you for your honesty and your kindness, your support and yes, your love. Thank you especially to my friends who not only read every post but live all of the adventures, the trials and the errors with me, every single day. I hope that in the years to come, I’m able to turn this space into something even better – maybe a book. Maybe a movie, should I ever get that lucky. Maybe just an open forum where we can all contribute our confessions. I hope it’ll one day house engagement photos and wedding portraits, pregnancy announcements and a happy, fat baby.

Maybe it’ll just continue to grow with me, day by day, step by step, stage and age by age.

500 posts later — I’m still a self-proclaimed love addict, but at least it’s a (mostly) healthy addiction now. I’m smarter and bolder, braver and more accepting of myself. I still love love, and hope more than anything that it finds me someday, but if it doesn’t, I know I’ll be happy — and loved — no matter what.

In honor of these hundreds of blogs, here are some of my favorite posts and quotes from the last three years. Let there be 500 more!

“Here we go. I’ve got my favorite pair of heels on my feet, my favorite gloss on my lips, my skinny jeans on my body, and my hand in my own hand -telling me it’s okay to go forward.I’m ready to fall in love with myself.” – My Name is Lindsay and I’m a Love Addict, September 19, 2010.

“My New York story is one that’s like many other hopeful artists who grace the streets with only high-heeled bootstraps and raw ambition to be their guide.I’m not alone –there are endless writers, musicians, models, actresses, dancers, and performers who move to Gotham knowing that all they ever wanted will reveal itself before their eyes. The universe, surely, will move and shift to make fate play its magic cards.” –These Streets Will Make You Feel Brand New, October 14, 2010.

“So here is to being me, the beautiful mess and everything. Frankly, when it comes to what I want and who I am, I do give a damn.” – Frankly, I Do Give a Damn, November 8, 2010.

“He really is, for all intents and purposes, a peaceful, easy feeling in my life. Being around him, wrapped up in him, or smelling his smell is not hard and not too scary. Because, I with my blog, and he with his past, have no inclination of how long this union will last. Or where it will go. Or how we will both feel. But for once, I’m okay with not having any idea.” –The Love That Could Be: Mr. Possibility, December 13, 2010.

“…the best thing about being knocked down and falling (either to a heart break or in love), is that you get to be a single gal who stands up, dusts herself off, and struts her way towards something new, confident in the company of herself and knowing that at times she may stumble and she may plummet, but she will never stay down for long.” –A Single Girl Struggles (But Stands), January 11, 2011.

“Maybe, the only relationship we can truly have on our own terms, without compromising or bending the rules or our standards, is the one we have with ourselves. And even that one is also complicated, and is neither exclusive or nonexclusive. Because at times we open up ourselves to possibilities, and other times, we’re completely content with being in only the company of ourselves. But most of the time – we’re somewhere right in between, deciding which turn, which page, which road, to take next. –The Exclusively, Nonexclusive Relationship, January 31, 2011.

“…almost as easily as the storm came, it leaves. Its noise, its electricity, its saturation, and its perfume trail off into a space beyond the Blue Ridge mountaintops you’ve never crossed. It is only then, when the branches rest from their dancing, the daffodils face the sun as it breaks through the clouds, that the real beauty reveals itself.” –And The Storm Will Rise, February 8, 2011.

“A girl, that while she puts on her New York when she wakes up, there is always a little North Carolina in the choices she makes. The world may be my oyster – but I’d like to think I’m some sort of a peal in this city that’s anything but pure.” –Put My New York On, March 12, 2011.

“The apartment started me – it gave me a foundation. And that was its purpose – to be the starter. To ignite me and provide stability, and now with a little more street smarts, a little less liability, and some places to land should I fall, there isn’t a need for a starter. Like most of what brings us joy in our lives, it has its tenure and then we move onto the next thing, to the next dream to tackle, to the new empty space to make into a home.” –The Starter Apartment, May 1, 2011.

“I see skies with scrapers; stars that don’t come out at night. I see the colors of the rainbow in Chelsea, so pretty walking by. I hear taxis cry, I watch them speed, and I realize they’ll see so much more New York than I’ll ever know. And still, I think to myself, what a wonderful world.” –Louie Armstrong Moments, May 18, 2011.

“New York doesn’t make excuses for anything it does and it expects no less or more from its inhabitants, either native, visiting or transplanted. It’s unbearably hot, frigidly cold, entirely unpredictable, and ruthlessly relentless. But us dreamers? We keep coming, one-by-one, and two-by-two, with a few suitcases and singing a duet of ego and fear, determined to be destined to make it here, in New York freakin’ City, the place we were meant to be.” –In An Ordinary Afternoon, July 5, 2011.

“…sometimes, on a lazy Sunday with a pretty big week ahead, it’s refreshing to sit around in your guy’s t-shirt, relaxing and writing just as you love to do, enjoying the company of yourself and looking forward to the person you love to come home. I don’t want to be settled down, but it’s nice to have your heart settled in a moment.” –Playing House, July 31, 2011.

“…you have to believe – in yourself, in your partner and in the relationship. But most of all, you have to believe that sometimes flames start steady and never last, some struggle but end up lighting up the whole room, some are so hot you melt, but burn out quicker than you like, and sometimes, with the right combination of everything, you find a fire that not only keeps you warm, but reminds you why having flames of passion isn’t as important as having trust that it’ll stay lit.” –Trusting the Fire, August 3, 2011.

“This is what New York is like though – right? Love dims when the sun rises over the East river, when corner stores open for business, when everyone orders the everything bagel, when everyone realizes that everything that felt so right last night, doesn’t this morning. Those who come to the city looking for love quickly find it is a glorified Hollywood myth. Love only come to those who withstand the decade of dating disasters in their 20s, only to find a nice, shorter, balding man in their 30s who can provide. They marry him in a rush, have a baby within a year, and then they become part of the stroller brigades of Park Slope and the UWS, causing a whole new generation of 20-somethings to see their happy little family and big bling and think, Sigh, I want that, too.” –In Love In New York, August 31, 2011.

“He chronicled his failures in the way I collected my successes – placed on mental bookshelves, collecting dust and more despair, only to be pulled out in the moments where he needed a reminder of what he was. Or at least, what he thought he was…Sitting across from me, talking about something new that’s causing him grief, I couldn’t shake the certainty I felt that he was stuck somewhere between the guy he’s been the last ten years, the man he hopes to become and the stagnant existence he has now…I’m really afraid of is being stranded in the Land of Impossibility with him.” –Oh, The Impossibilities, September 7, 2011.

“I’ve traded that bathtub for a cab, those tears for a red dress, and that fear of being alone for the option of having something extraordinary. And that hatred for the word “single” into a thankfulness that through it all, I still have just what I’ve always needed: Myself. And of course, a bottle of champagne, some great friends, a heart that’s still beating and believing, and the faith that the best is yet to come. Stay tuned.” –The Best is Yet To Come, September 19, 2011.

“It really had been too long and yet, maybe it was too soon, I concluded as I pushed the 7th floor button. But really, I could never have let Mr. P come between me and him–my New York–for long. Cheap dollar pizza and Bryant Park? My first love has always been this place — and it was time to stop letting memories have anything to do with guys I’ve dated, and let them be about the man, the city, that first stole my heart.” –And Then I Met Him in Bryant Park, November 29, 2011.

“But I have time to see places I want to see. Time to find the parts of me I’ve yet to discover. Time to paint my room before the Spring arrives. Time to learn how to say “love” in every language I find intriguing. Time to put that word to use with men who are worthy of all it entails. And time to let my heart design my space, my intentions and my life. After all, without it, nothing I see around me (or inside of me) would be possible.” –Let My Heart Design, January 19, 2012.

“I’m never quite enough, yet always more than enough to handle. I always have exactly what I need but I want more, though I know, I probably need less. I just want to keep on going – and going – and going.” –It’s Funny That Way, February 24, 2012.

“My heart is like the skyline – something I let shine for others to see, but at the end of the night, when the sun starts to rise and the wounds begin to heal, it opens up, bright and brilliant again, ready for another night, ready for all that’s yet to come.” –My Heart is Like the Skyline, March 4, 2012.

“There are men who will adore all of the things that make you a woman, even when those things bear babies instead of nights of sexual release, even when those things drag instead of rise to occasions. Men who will always remember what you looked like that day you walked toward them in a white gown with glitter on your eyes and the purist of hope in your heart. There are men who truly, honestly, completely will love you. There are so many men out there. But you’ll never meet them if you don’t let go of the guys you really don’t want to find the men you really deserve. The men who are waiting to meet someone just like you.” –There Are Men, April 23, 2012.

“I learned there’s no course to study or class to take. There are many tests but never any measure of success. There are many words to write, but no rubric to follow. There are no answers to any of the questions or a correct bubble to fill in. The choices are endless, but the options seem limited. No matter the experience you endure or the hours you put into studying — there will never be a tried-and-true way to know how to love. –How to Love, June 26, 2012.

“You keep on dating. You keep getting to know people. You try new things. You move on. You keep learning. You keep daring that same dream. You keep hoping for it…because maybe it really is out there. Maybe its over city scapes or the Garden Gate. Over warm countrysides or waiting in the evening’s tide. Maybe it’s over in the next cart or just anticipating when it’ll start. Or maybe it’s just across the room or in places new, places you knew. Or it could just be inside of you. And that dream you dared to dream, awaits, for someone like you. Because if bluebirds can fly, if strangers can find each other, if so many before me can fall in love with the right man, why, oh why, can’t I? Why, oh why, can’t you?” –Why, Oh Why, Can’t I?, July 18, 2012.

“My rape was legitimate. It was painful – emotionally and physically and personally. If only for a few moments, it took away something that belongs to me:my choice. My choice to make love or to have sex or to do everything-but. It took away my choice to let a man inside of me. It took away my choice to ask for more and to tell someone to slow down. It took away a piece of me that I’ll never get back. But it also did something else for me: it helped make me a fighter.” –My Rape Was Legitimate, August 22, 2012.

“Not everyone has the luxury of their exes going to Singapore and France for a year. But I do.” – Happy After Him, August 27, 2012.

“So many days I’ve lived, so many days I’ve done nothing but hope. They’ve come and gone, like the men I’ve known, and there will be more. There will probably be many more. But one very fine day — I don’t know how far away from now — will finally be my one day.” –One Fine Day, January 3, 2013.

“I wondered if I would become anther listless writer, another hopeless dreamer who lost her way somewhere between New Jersey and Queens. I didn’t know if I could convince someone to give me a chance or if I could even survive on the minimal salary that I knew would come with my very first big girl job. But I did believe I should try. Even if failed to a disappointing demise and had to tuck my Tigar tail and catch a flight to the bittersweet Carolina, I knew I had to give it a go. Remorse I could live with, regret I could not.” –So Very Worth It, February 27, 2013.

“I kind of love it when it rains in New York. The glistening of the buildings. The sound of the droplets on the roof or the window. The sparkle on the street. The sound of kids splashing in the puddles and the sight of couples canoodling to stay dry. The best part of rain in the city is what’s so great about New York itself: after the storm passes — whatever it may be — everything that was bad or grimy or unsure from before is washed away. And what’s left is up to you create. You just have to decide if you can put up with a little rain to get there.” –I Love It When It Rains in New York, March 14, 2013.

“Then, on an unusually windy April afternoon, as I walk to pick up a latte after another less-than-interesting Saturday night, I’ll see an elderly man shushing the oncoming cars and taxis as his wife shuffles along with a walker. It’ll take two traffic rotations for her to make it across, but he just tells her to take her time. She’ll be wearing red lipstick and he’ll reach over to make sure she can make it up the sidewalk, and I’ll be standing right there, watching it all unfold in literally, slow motion. Then I’ll smile. And I’ll think of you, whoever you are, wherever you might be. And I’ll pray that you’ll make your way to me soon because I’d rather walk these streets alone than to meet someone who isn’t you.” –I Thought of You Today, April 22, 2013.

“You would miss the part where something hits you — probably in the middle of an ordinary day — and you realize that blueprint doesn’t fit you anymore. And that no plan really does at all. Maybe it never did to begin with. Because finally, after fighting the should-be’s and the could-be’s and the supposed-to’s and all the pressuring words that did nothing but haunt you, you have found yourself released from the language. You’ve found yourself free from the scam — I mean, the plan — and happily ever after without a clue of what’s next. And you know — or at the very least, you hope — it’s going to work out in a way that no pencil, no high school paper, no fortune teller, no anyone or anything could have ever predicted.” –The Five Year Scam, June 11, 2013.

March 4, 2013 by Lindsay Tigar - 3 Comments

Feelings Know Best

My friend A has a sense of adventure that I admire as much as I fear.

She galivants around the world — by herself — hitch hiking and talking to strangers who quickly become stories in her never-ending journal of interesting conversations that seriously, no one else has. She is truly a curly-headed wonder woman who takes risks and creates a bucket list of things she actually ends up doing.

I consider her one of my strong-willed and fiercely independent companions — someone who praises me for having the balls to walk away from something wrong for me and then telling me an obscure fact about elephants a beat later. She’s not traditional but she does believe in traditions of great families, like the crazy one she comes from, and though she doesn’t care for those vulnerable pieces that make her beautifully gushy and maternal in all the right ways, I love it about her.

But she’s afraid of feelings. Actually, she says she’s not good at them.

And I’d have to agree. She has emotions — overpowering, vivid, passionate ones — that when she articulates them can sensationally take your breath away. But it’s a rarity when she lets it all out, when she makes herself tender enough to shed a layer of her sturdy walls — the ones meant to protect her and everyone she knows. Her emotions can overwhelm her in a way that she can’t process in the second the moment happens. And then the moment turns into a memory and then she has enough time to feel the feelings without avoiding them, and then that memory becomes a new fascinating, gripping tale she tells you.

The truth is, I wish I was like A. I wish I could think before I speak. I wish I was brave to tackle uncharted territory and I wish I was bad at feelings.

Because frankly, I’m almost too good at them.

Which is why Dr. Heart made it to this blog. Or why I developed faith in him before getting to honestly know him. In this case, I let the heart lead the head and the head found reasons to steer the heart away.

I hearted too soon.

As I often do, but this time, I went with my gut and the lessons I learned a little too hard from Mr. P and I got away from a negative nelly before he got the best of me. I also learned an important lesson about my own heart after prematurely naming someone a love doctor before truly getting to know his heart and seeing if it actually matched and beat along with mine.

I didn’t let feelings really develop before calling them emotions. They were, in all actuality, just thoughts. And while those are quite powerful demons when they want to be, when heart strings and brain waves work together, something wonderful happens. When they don’t, nothing really can ever work.

Those feelings, whatever they may be, they must be given time to foster.

Regardless if you’re good or bad at feelings, it you’re afraid of them or crave them, if you express them way too often or not at all — you have to have them.

And through relationships and anything else that’s tied closely to those pesky little butterflies that direct so many of our decisions, you have to feel your way to figure out which direction is best.

You have to try to fail, you have to cry to swell, you have to hope to cope, and you have to think you know, only to find out that you, well, don’t.

I’m not sure what’s next for me and whatever mister I muster the courage to welcome into my life, my bed, my never, ever giving up soul — but if anything, I’m not worried. I can feel my way through and figure it all out with those feelings.

Just like I always have, just like A has, even if we verbalize them differently. Even if being bad or good at feelings doesn’t really mean anything — the most important thing about those annoying, constant and sometimes fascinating flutters, is that after every disappointment or struggle or relationship that never actually became such a thing after all… You still have them. You still let yourself feel them.

You let them figure it all out. After all, good or bad, they do know best.

November 12, 2012 by Lindsay Tigar - 2 Comments

You Learn To Say Yes

When there’s a moment at some bar in some part of town on some night when you’re feeling highly unlike yourself, yet more liberated than you’ve ever felt at any time or place — maybe ever — and you feel like the decision you always thought was wrong, somehow, in some way, feels more than just somewhat right… don’t wait. Don’t hesitate. Don’t let those nagging voices, those lingering interpretations of what’s good and what’s bad, what’s moral and what’s immoral hang over your head or damper your bed. When you’ve spent your entire life avoiding doing what you’ve really wanted, what you’ve really craved for fear of what it says about you or what it would mean or not mean — there sometimes comes a moment when instead of denying yourself…

You learn to say yes.

When you play by the rules and you get up with the clock without delaying your rise-and-shine time, and you leave the bar at the strike of midnight so dark circles don’t weigh your eyes. When you’re the first to arrive and the first to leave, when you’re the girl who skips the extra drink as your high-heeled friends tiptoe away in yellow cabs with open minds into the night, into the evening that could bring up more questions than answers. When you’d rather know the plan before agreeing to the route, or when you’d prefer to be the leader of the shenanigans instead of the one who lets the Autumn wind blow her whichever way it might. When you’re so used to being so in control of everything and everyone and every situation, without a surprise, without anything or anyone having the chance to stir up the path you’ve laid so carefully. So meticulously. So rationally. When you’ve been that woman and it’s taken you far, there comes a point when the bartender asks if you’ll have another round and instead of listening to the clock tick…

You learn to say yes.

When the love you thought you found has been gone for so long that smells aren’t familiar and places don’t ring the bells you’ve forgotten how to hear. When your heart can’t remember the last time it desired to leave the comfort of your chest or when your head fit like a missing puzzle piece on the chest of some man that you felt could be more than a stranger. When your mind rolls around in reckless matter, trying to detect the signs between the sentences, the maybes among the definitelys and the definitely not’s. When you feel like there’s nothing you have to give and there’s no one worth trying to find or any love worth the risk. When another date feels like another date on another day that will end in a cold, empty bed on a cold, bitter night. When you know that most likely, he won’t — whoever he is — be different than the rest, but you’d be better off to at least meet his eyes and share a glass of wine…

You learn to say yes.

When every last bone in your body aches to stop and your lungs fill up with such rage that you’re sure they will burst before you reach the lightpost a few paces ahead. When you know that pleasure is still two miles away and in that time you’ll have to suffer through the freeze and battle through the careless pedistrans, not watching you come, not caring to move out of your way, not interested in the runner who decides to break a sweat instead of sweating over a date you won’t like anyway. When you can see your goals and you can feel your body adapt to meet them, but the warmest place to land is your bed — not this unforgiving pavement that you pretend doesn’t make your ankles sore. When you really, really want to give up. When your limbs want you to stop. When you come to the conclusion that you simply can’t go any harder or faster, you decide to disagree and fight back.

You learn to say yes.

When you’ve always known what’s next or at least where you hoped you’d be. When you’ve felt certainly certain and positively positive about everything that mattered and all that you dreamed of. When you’ve spent endless hours obsessing about the tiniest of details and the smallest of cracks, the could-be’s and the would-be’s, the opposite ends of the spectrum and all that’s in between. When you’ve mapped it out and factored in a few curve balls that no one said you could prepare for, but you — you figured out a way to do just that. When you’ve crossed your t’s and lined your eyes, slimmed your thighs and been brought to your knees. When you’ve met all of your promises and held up all of those pretty little standards that you’ve straightened up in perfect little rows around the magical city you call home.

When there’s a moment where all you want to do is plunge into something or someone or some place, just to see what happens. Instead of telling yourself how badly it could turn out and how you might feel or how you might regret….

You learn to say yes. You just say yes.

Share the Addiction:

Share the Addiction:

Share the Addiction:

Share the Addiction:

Share the Addiction: